Aftermath
by Exotic Emeralds
Summary: After the almighty London Battle of the great WW3, Harry Potter, Themanwhotriumphed, disappeared into thin air. Where is he? Why has he abandoned the rest of the world? Is he alive? Angsty. Rated for morbid detail, mature themes, etc...
1. Prologue

Aftermath

**Summary: **After the almighty London Battle of the great WW3, Harry Potter, The-man-who-triumphed, disappeared into thin air. Where is he? Why has he abandoned the rest of the world? Is he alive?

**Disclaimer: **Sadly, nothing is mine,except anything you don't recognize. Don't sue, please.

**A/N:** This story was originally posted by a "Silver Icicle". This was my best friend, who's computer I was using to type this story, because my family computer had crashed and we couldn't afford a new one. She decided it would be fun to post it and credit it as her own. Let me just say that she is a backstabber, and did not write this story. We're no friends anymore, and she decided it would be fun to post this story and take all the credit, when it was my work.And to prove it, I'm reposting it, and CONTINUING it, as she only had the first four chapters. Enjoy. :)

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Prologue

It was a particularly dark and chilly night tonight. The full moon shone with all its strength over the small run-down village below. Dark gray clouds glided slowly above, engulfing the night sky, snatching away the usual peaceful twinkle of the bright stars. Only one star shone tonight, and it was green.

In the far distance, you could make out large puffs of dark smoke rising into the air, and disappearing, blending into the darkened sky. Just beneath them was a eerie orange glow, and screams pierced the night sky, echoing off of the mountainous valley. If you squinted hard enough, you could make out different colored jets of light shooting into the orange glow, and then fading, and with strained ears you could barely make out people shouting out words in Latin.

The whole world knew. The entire world now knew the story of the Boy-who-lived, muggle or magic. After the world war that broke loose, Wizards were forced to warn muggles. _Millions _were lost. The world had been left a smoky, dark graveyard.

The Spark of the war had been a battle fought in Hogsmeade, where many Death Eaters had attacked homes, and, to their delight, Harry Potter had responded immediately. Without permission of the Headmistress, and without any warning, he had burst out of Charms class, and had apparated out of the Castle, right in the middle of the battlefield. Many soon followed, and when Voldemort and his troops were forced to retreat, Voldemort had declared war.

It had been so sudden that no one, apart from Britain, had been prepared. All of Europe had been attacked within the remaining hours of the day, and that had soon spread, by the end of that week, the _entire world _was at war. Not one country was spared.

Hogwarts had been forced to close down and children had been evacuated quickly from the school. When the second battle in Azkaban had occurred, Light had managed to gain Azkaban as their own land, and, furiously, Voldemort had gone after Britain's neighbors, claiming _all of Europe _except for Britain. The world had turned into a battlefield.

The win of Azkaban had brought some calamity to the war. All women and children were rushed into Azkaban's heavily guarded Island, and a lock down had followed. Safety was not one hundred percent, but at the time, Azkaban was the safest place in the world.

Months of fighting had only caused the Dark Lord to claim almost _half _of the world for himself. 46 of the World's landmass became his battlefield, his training field, his _play place._ The Light had to act fast.

Six months into the war, and during four, Harry had not been seen anywhere, until finally, the last Battle approached.

When Voldemort's Army tried to attack London, it was Harry's turn to defend. 956,900 people died that day, including Death Eaters, and by the end, the only two left standing, were Harry and Voldemort.

Two days the two most powerful wizards battled against each other. Two days, they vainly sent powerful curses and raw energy to each other, not realizing their powers were evenly matched. But Harry had the advantage. He knew where the last two Horcruxes were, and he had left the two for last, because he knew there was only one way to kill both; by ripping them out of wherever they were using his blood, controlling them safely away from the innocent, before obliterating them. The only problem was that Harry himself had been the last Horcrux created. Voldemort had left the seventh and final part of his soul in Harry, marking him as an equal, which meant destroying the last two Horcruxes would be the most difficult, especially when it came to ripping Voldemort's soul out of his body, without managing to damage his own.

And so, as the last hours arrived, Harry collapsed into a heap, and began to chant powerfully, an ancient chant he had altered, and with the most power ever witnessed, he ripped the last two parts of Voldemort's soul out of his own and Voldemort's body, before controlling them, while unconscious, with the power of Godric, the control of his magical core, and his sacrificed blood, and smashing the two last pieces together, sending a wave of energy so strong, it had separated the two fighters, kilometers apart.

And as Harry crawled towards the body mass that was now a soulless body, he sentenced the monster to a life of pain…

Before Harry Potter disappeared into thin air.

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**A/N:** Note, this chapter is so short, because it is the** Prologue.** I needed it out of the way to explain the basic plot so nobody was confused.

In the Future, chapters will be much longer. (Four to six pages instead of two), so that I can have a healthy ten chapters in total for this story.


	2. Chapter One

**Aftermath**

**Disclaimer: **Anything you recognize belongs to the Harry Potter queen, not poor little old me.

**A/N:** Okay, no reviews yet. That's okay. I wont get discouraged yet, I mean, this is being reposted as of now.

Also, you might notice I changed the OTHER character's name. You'll know what I mean...

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Chapter One

It was so cold. The faded screams in the distance only managed to pierce his ears and soul the softer they were. He could hear the pleas of young girls and boys, and teenagers, and mothers, and fathers, and boyfriends, and girlfriends, and families, and loved ones…It made him sick. His stomach churned.

Cold sweat trailed down his temples, forking away, some into his hair, other down his pale, hollow cheeks, disappearing into the collar of his blood-stained navy-blue Sweater. His eyes were fogged, distant, and bloodshot. The once emerald glow of determination had faded to one of plead; one of guilt; one of failure. A tremble made its way up his spine, and he gasped, which forced him into a long agonizing coughing fit. It felt as if his lungs were contracting so much, they had managed to shrink. His stomach churned with more power, causing his complexion to pale, so that in the small trail of moonlight, he looked almost transparent.

His coughing ceased and he was left in a heap, on the cold hardwood floor, which was stained with blood. Darker dry reds, and shining bright reds, that looked like sapphires shining on the ground. It made him sick.

He tried to stand. His knees buckled, but he managed to stay on his feet, and, with great effort, he made his way to the bathroom, collapsing at the sink and retching all over the once bleach white sink and counter, spilling onto the floor at his feet. But he didn't care.

His head spun faster and faster, as the distant screams, seemed to penetrate louder, and deeper into his skull. He gasped, as he felt a sudden jolt of pain, zap from one temple to the other, leaving him momentarily blind. He stumbled, and collapsed once again on the floor. This time, he did not get up, and instead, he leaned back against the bathtub, rested his neck on the ledge, his arms dangling at his sides, and his legs bent up with his feet pressed up against the wall, careful to avoid the mess on the floor.

Everything had been a blur. From the moment he had finished his last murder, to now. His mind hadn't registered anything. Only that he wished he would die, and in his condition, he wouldn't be surprised if he died at this moment.

He let his head loll forward, long locks of blood and dirt stained hair covering his face like a curtain. He brought his hands up, resting his elbows on his knees, and bringing his hand up to his face, where he began to massage his temples.

The distant screams never died. They continued with the rage of a strong hurricane, keeping the young man insane. His head refused to stop spinning, and he swore the more he thought about it, the faster it would go. Round and round like a Ferris Wheel, sometimes slower, sometimes faster, but always round and round.

A shot like gunfire startled him. There were thousands of distant screams, and, as his head snapped back, his neck cracking, he could feel his heart beating louder and faster. His breath became hitched, and he found it hard to breath, as if someone was robbing his air. He stumbled back onto his feet. He needed to get away. He needed to get away now; Away from the confusion; Away from the reminders.

With two large, blood crusted hands; he covered his ears, trying to block the now high-pitched buzz. His vision began to darken, and another zap of pain shot through his temples. He stumbled on his feet, which had been carrying him out of the bathroom, and his elbows collided with the floor. _Not now Not now! _He wished desperately. He needed to get away!

He scrambled back up, and began to jog, out of the room he had been in before, which he had created into his own mourning room, and into his bedroom. He collapsed onto his bed, and nearly lost consciousness right there. But he forced himself to focus on the sane part of his mind. _It'll all be over soon. It'll all be over soon. _He chanted over and over.

Closing his eyes, he let his arms drop to his side, and dug his toes into the bed covers. He forced himself to relax, and reminded himself to breath in through his nose and breath out through his mouth. Slowly, the buzzing began to fade, and the screaming wasn't so apparent.

Why was this happening to him? Oh he knew the answer, he just didn't want to admit it. There were two simple reasons.

One, he had ripped a seventh of a soul that had been a part of him for sixteen years out of his body, and had been wounded in so many ways, he had forgotten how to live. Two, he had killed so many people in the war, that the entire flesh on his body was stained with impurity, and he could not live with himself. Not to mention he had never been healed after the war, and was now in hiding from the entire world, in such a helpless manner, that death would be rewarding.

He looked down at his hand guiltily. Those hands, were hands of a murderer. They were the hands of someone who was equal to Voldemort. Those hands had tortured and killed just as many people as Voldemort's hands had. He felt his stomach churn once more, and forced himself to swallow the amount of acidic bile that tried to force its way out of his mouth.

Then his eyes traveled down to his torso. He had done this many times before. With a trembling hand (a tremble he had developed permanently) he lifted the ends of his sweater, and pulled it over his head, tossing it onto the floor.

His anorexic corpse was covered in long dark red lashes that invaded his flesh. There was more red then white. In some places, the bone could be seen, along with the crusted chunks of loose skin. His stomach rose and fell weakly, causing a particularly long, but not too deep cut, to open and close again and again so that it almost always contained traces of fresh blood, like now. The corners were crying small crystals of red, which trailed very lightly down the side of his stomach and onto the mattress.

He closed his eyes at the sight. It always made him wonder why he was still alive after a week's time, living in filthy conditions. The house itself, rundown and stoned all around, was covered with blood stains here and there, especially the first day, when he had forced apparated into this place and had immediately lost consciousness for six straight hours, which had put not only his, but others' lives on the line.

His eyes scanned his lower body. He knew, without taking off his black jeans, that one of his legs had been broken, which is what caused him to limp instead of walk. He had worn a Splint the first two days, but hadn't found use to it, and instead he forced himself to walk on the leg, knowing it was costing him, his life slowly. But he was stubborn. He believed he deserved to die this slow and painful death.

He inhaled sharply when another, much softer bolt of pain slashed its way from one of his temples straight to the other. He knew that his scar was burning too. It had been for days now. He had gotten used to the constant throb, and the way blood seemed to ooze out of it every once and a while. He smirked, almost humored when he felt a small trail of blood begin to slip down his brow. The sharp zaps of pain had caused his scar to magically open again.

He had a suspicion of why he kept having this jolts of magic, surge left and right, as if they bounced back and forth from one temple to the other. It was his magical energy. After ripping a part of someone else's soul from you, you're magic goes haywire. He knew that had to get treated too, but he could wait. Maybe he would go insane and then die; the perfect death for the perfect wizard (or so the world thought).

He was guided into another fit of coughs after inhaling sharply. Dry hard coughs reverberated through him, climbing dryly up his esophagus and scratching at his throat, almost clawing at it, as if it was desperate to inflict as much harm as it could. He closed his eyes tightly, and tried vainly to breath properly, keep himself alive for just a little longer…

Slowly, the coughing faded, and once again he was left as a rag doll, his body limp on his bed, arms hanging loosely off of the edge, and his head resting against the pillow, his eyes closed shut tightly, causing him to begin to see twisting wires of vibrant color against his eyelids.

A faint whimper startled him, and he nearly had another coughing fit. He sat bolt up, ignoring the sharp pain that cursed its way up his spine to the base of his neck. He knew that whimper. It was the reason he was still here, on Earth.

Ignoring all pain, he stood on his wobbly feet, and followed the whimper into the next room. There it was, the only thing that kept him rooted to sanity, the only thing that reminded him there was a reason to love, the only thing that had been exposed to his pain. A baby.

He made his way to the small crib, which was the only thing in the room, aside from a small table and a small duffel bag filled with diapers and baby bottles. Carefully with so much gentleness and love, it nearly caused every fiber of glass to shatter with power, he picked up the baby, and held it tightly against him.

The whimpering ceased, and the baby began to move in his hands. Ever so carefully, he loosened his grip, and looked down.

The smallest, most angelic infant, lay in the "man-who-conquered"'s arms. His eyes were as piercing green as Harry's. The small apparent locks of hair were dark brown, almost black, but not quite. His small chubby hands, reached up, and he gurgled softly, trying to reach for a lock of Harry's own hair, but Harry gently tucked the baby's hand down.

"I'm sorry, Christian, but you can't touch my hair. I'm all dirty." He cooed hoarsely.

The baby seemed to understand, and instead cuddled closer to Harry's chest, causing him to flinch. The baby whimpered, his eyes looking up into Harry's.

"I know Christian, I want your Mother too, I want everyone, but almost all of them are gone. You can't understand it, but I killed so many people, and I can't go back…" He began, but a burning sensation climbed against his throat, and tears began to prickle in his eyes.

The baby whimpered again, and then began to sob quietly, tears pouring out of its eyes, as it hugged Harry almost afraid to let go. The tears in Harry's eyes exploded down his face, and fell gently against the baby's cheek.

"I'm so sorry Christian. I don't want to ruin your life. I took you away from your mother. I don't even know if she's alive, I-."He was forced to stop as a long painful jolt, zapped once again from one temple to the other, and he almost lost his grip on Christian.

The baby began to sob louder, clutching at Harry as if he was the only thing that could stop his pain. He brought the baby up to his neck, and cuddle against it, enjoying the soft scent of baby powder.

"Shhhh… Daddy's here." He cooed, and the baby relaxed, and soon drifted off to sleep.

Sitting down on the same chair he had been before his episode in the bathroom, Harry watched the baby sleep. How long he stood there, he did not know. All that mattered was everything was going to be okay. _Everything's going to be okay._

_Everything's going to be okay…**

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**A/N:** This is more or less the average size of my chapters, for ficlets. Ficlets are stories that are longer than five chapters, but shorter than fifteen. I enjoy ficlets because they have a simple plot, can become a series, and are easier to write and stay committed to.

You'll find out who the mother is eventually. Now, whether she is alive or not, I cannot say. You'll see, but I cannot guarantee she'll play a role as a "living" character.


	3. Chapter Two

Aftermath

**Disclaimer: **I know that you know that this story isn't mine. Maybe it will be some day…

**A/N: **Thank You for all of thewonderful reviews (Two of them!). I am so very happy. Here you are now:

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Chapter Two

Harry sat on a large, black, leather-bound chair, head resting against the windowsill of the window placed above him. His knees were brought up to his chest, and held closely to him, to his heart, was Christian. The baby slept silently, its tiny hand clutching the soft, dirty material of Harry's sweater, as its cheek pressed against Harry's chest, as if looking for a heartbeat for reassurance that Harry was really still there, and wouldn't leave yet. Harry placed one finger against the child's cheek, stroking it softly, and humming quietly. But his eyes didn't leave their place. He was transfixed with the sunrise.

The sunrise was something Harry couldn't miss. It was his only hope; His only hope that he wasn't the only hero. The sun was a hero every day, conquering the darkness in little time. It conquered every day, and never did it fail. Never did night stretch longer then what was necessary, because the sun would always come to a rescue.

Sure, the sunset made Harry realize everything that had happened. Every time he sat on this same chair, sometimes with Christian in his arms, other times with Christian in his crib beside the chair, he was thrown forcefully back to reality. He was the sun. He had conquered the darkness. He should have faced his fears, and risen up in the open, like the sun usually did. He should have declared his victory. The sun had. Even if the sun killed away the many beautiful twinkling stars, and hid away the moon, it still rose proudly. Why couldn't he? He killed many death eaters, so why couldn't he stand proud and declare safety for all?

That was simple. It was for the same reason these last few days, the sun had taken a liking to hiding behind the many clouds, some of rain, others of smoke. He was afraid. He needed to hide behind something because he knew he wasn't pure. Just as the sun knew it wasn't pure.

Of course, the wizarding world and the muggle world wouldn't care. He would be given so many awards and such for his bravery, just as the sun was rewarded for helping the plants grow, and creating heat. But he didn't want it, because he wasn't pure. The sun didn't want it because it wasn't pure. They both had done it because it was their duty. The sun rose everyday because that was its destiny. Harry had killed Voldemort because it was his destiny.

He shuddered. Didn't it haunt the sun? Didn't the sun always shrink back for a few hours, and let night conquer? Didn't the sun feel guilt?

No, of course not. Unlike the sun, Harry was plagued at night with so many nightmares, and so many memories, he was always reduced to nothing but a sobbing helpless child. Christian would then begin to whimper and cry also, as if he understood the pain.

But didn't the sun shrink away too? At night, when Harry did? Did it go and hide every night because, even though it should be resting, it was haunted by the mere thought of its destruction? How in some places it caused droughts, it caused cancer, it tainted the atmosphere, and it killed beauty? It killed, wasn't that enough to make anyone shrink away?

Christian began to stir quietly in his arms. He gurgled softly, and turned. For a moment, he stopped, almost in panic, and rested his tiny ear against Harry's chest. And then he giggled softly, almost happy that the beating of Harry's heart was still there. Harry couldn't have asked for a more touching display of love. Gently, he picked up the baby, and blew a weak raspberry against his stomach, and Christian's giggles filled the room.

"I'm glad you're happy." Harry said hoarsely. His throat still pleaded for aid, and for healing, but he ignored the rather apparent sting, and instead went in search of a baby bottle and milk.

Ten minutes later, he was back on the same chair, with Christian suckling contently at the warm milk bottle which Harry was feeding him. Harry found the child so beautiful and so innocent. It was his only connection to freedom and to love. Harry had killed for a reason. Even if Christian was the only child on Earth left, it was worth it. Innocence would rise and conquer. He had created a second chance for Christian

Tears found their way down Harry's cheeks and onto to Christian's. He giggled, drinking the last of the milk, before wiping away the crystallized tears that had landed on his cheek. His emerald eyes looked up at Harry, and upon seeing that Harry was crying, wrapped its tiny arms around Harry's arm, and cuddled against Harry's chest.

"Christian. Never change, please. You're my only hope. I know it's hard. I've brought you into this hell, but please never change. You're keeping me alive." Harry muttered thickly, more tears staining his cheeks, as he gently stroked the baby's hair.

Christian cooed in response.

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When the screams from the distant died, some five hours later, a haunted silence filled the room. Harry was kneeling on the floor beside his "contemplating chair", his hand pressed firmly against his ears, and his eyes tightly shut, as he tried to block out all sound and sight.

His mind swam with visions of his past. Even as he pulled his hands away from his ears, and pressed them firmly against his eyes, he could not rid himself of those images. Fire roared around him, people were screaming and pleading for help. The earth was stained with vibrant red, as if an artist had splashed blood red pain all over the ground; As if it had been raining blood moments ago. Some people stood wands at the ready, showered in blood, barely conscious, and yet fighting. Giants were falling, dementors were swooping through the area, animals were roaring, and children were screaming.

Harry shot his eyes open. The children, all of them, were screaming, pleading and dieing. He felt his stomach plummet to the ground, and a new voice rang through his ears from deep within his mind.

'_They die. The children, the babies, they died, and still die. You are selfish. You sit here doing nothing, and every minute one more child falls dead. At who's hands? At Yours. This is your fight, and you must fight it.'_

He felt as if someone had just token a blow at his stomach. All of his breath rushed out of him, and he found himself gripping his ears once more, trying to drown the sound of his own conscience.

'_Why not throw Christian away too? Or is he the only child who deserves to live? Of course. You are selfish. Your love will be your downfall. Let them all die. I hope you have the guilt of thousands of babies' lives at your hands. You killed them. Not Voldemort, not his death eaters, you did.'_

"NO! SHUT UP!" Harry screeched hoarsely, as he let his head fall forward. He was reduced to a helpless heap on floor, sobbing hysterically trying vainly to stop his conscience from taking him over.

A cry interrupted him from his internal battle. With a hesitant whimper, Harry looked up, bleary eyed, letting his hands fall to his side. Christian was crying from another room within.

He got up slowly, ignoring his body as it ached, his mind as it pleaded, and his hands as they shook. He walked into the small room he had assembled for Christian. A small crib in the middle of a room, with a table against the wall, holding a small bag of baby things, and a night light, was Christian's new room. He walked over to Christian's crib, just as a spark of pain shot from one temple to the other again, and looked over the crib.

Christian lay curled in one corner, sobbing loudly. His bright green eyes shone and brimmed with tears, as he looked up at Harry. His crying faltered, and reduced to helpless whimpers, as Harry spoke.

"Shh. It's okay, Christian. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up. I was just angry. Come here." Harry cooed. He reached over the crib, and picked up his son, holding him closely to his chest.

The child, at first, stopped crying, before wrapping its small arms around Harry. It snuggled its head against Harry's chest, before suddenly stopping. It attempted to wriggle free of Harry's grasp, pushing at Harry's chest with its little hands.

"Christian?" Harry muttered, almost letting Christian go in shock. Christian continued to squirm in Harry's grip, almost desperate to get away from Harry.

"Christian …what…" Harry trailed off, slowly placing Christian back into his crib. Christian immediately shrunk back into the far corner.

"Christian, what is it?" Harry asked, his stomach beginning to churn. He smiled, and slowly extended his hand as if to pick Christian up once more, but Christian whimpered loudly, and covered his face with his small hand.

Harry's vision began to swim, and with his free hand, he gripped the edge of the crib to steady himself. What was going on? Why was Christian doing this?

Taking a steady deep breath, Harry tried once more.

"Christian it's only me. It's daddy. Everything's okay. Come here, sweetie." He reached out his hand, which shook violently, but the baby began to tremble and cry, trying desperately to get away from Harry's hand.

Harry's world began to blur and swim dangerously. A loud buzzing filled his ears, and his knees felt weak. He clung on to the crib for support, staring wide eyed at his son.

"Christian …" He managed to say weakly. He fell to his knees, both his hands now clinging to the cage of the crib.

"No, no, no, no, no…Please no… Christian not you too. Don't do this to me…please…" Harry gasped, his shoulders beginning to shake, as tears streamed down his face.

Christian looked at Harry, his green eyes shining brightly. They shone with hurt and disgust and pain. Slowly, Christian nodded his head with a whimper.

"Christian." Harry gasped out. His body completely shut down, and his hands let go of Christian's crib weakly, sending him crashing to the ground. The last thing he saw was Christian and his eyes. Those piercing emeralds, told him all he needed to know.

In the distant, Harry could hear someone whisper.

"_You killed them. Not Voldemort, not his death eaters, you did." _

And he was plunged into total darkness.

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A/N: Constructive Criticism is my best friend!**


	4. Chapter Three

Aftermath

**Disclaimer:** sings I wish that I owned everything that's JKs. But unfortunately, I am but a faithful dreamer. Dodges rotten tomatoes

**A/N: **Thank you for all of your reviews

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Chapter Three

_The sharply defined shade of green scattered across London, as he walked. The smell of freshly cut grass, and the aroma of coffee as he passed a coffee shop awakened his senses. Muggles everywhere, passed, some doubling when they saw him, others staring, and the rest ignoring him, but it didn't matter. The world was at war._

_He knew something was wrong when he felt his scar twinge, and with it, came a loud, deafening explosion, and half of London was blasted to the ground, left in flames and rubble. Reacting within seconds of the sign of danger, he barely managed to put up a shield, before the wave of energy forced him to slide backwards. Thousands of terrified screams filled his ears, but he pushed them away. He couldn't let that get him._

_Strengthening his shield, he began to press forward, through the bits and pieces of burning wood which had once been large buildings, shops and homes. He ignored the lead brick in his stomach, and kept walking. The deeper he went into the blast, the more wounded he saw. A young girl, no more than five or six, sat motionless against a broken street sign, in a puddle of blood, her left side missing, including her arm, leg, parts of her torso, and her ear. Instead, blood oozed freely from her half body, as she fell limp forward, her eyes rolling to the back of her head. He pushed his thoughts along with the bile rising in his throat back down._

_More injure people stood on the sidelines, groaning or lying limp. One woman, about 25 years old, came up to him, her arm hanging onto her by a few strings of flesh. She crawled up to his feet, and began begging him to stop it. He looked down at her, stopping for a moment, his eyes brimming with tears, and with immense emotional force, he kept walking ignoring her. He could hear her wailing behind him. _

"_No! Come back! Please!" Her voice carried, but he couldn't let that effect him. He kept going._

_Suddenly, a high-pitched cold laugh rang through all the destruction, and his scar began to burn more fiercely, telling him the Dark Lord had come. He was ready._

_With his shield up and strong, he followed in the direction of the laugh, which seemed to echo through the disaster that was once London. But before he could reach Voldemort, Voldemort got to him._

_Pop!_

"_Well well, Potter had decided to join in the fun after all. What has been the matter? Too afraid to die?" Voldemort spoke with a laugh._

"_No. I've been feeling pity for when you and all of your Death Eaters die." He retorted._

"_Me and my Death Eaters you say? What brave little words from a brave little boy. I suppose Dumbledore taught you that. Too bad he's gone. I believe he was killed by a mere teacher? A mere Potion's master? Was he not the greatest wizard of all time?" Voldemort said._

"_You speak lies and yet truth. Yes, you and your death eaters. No, Dumbledore did not teach me, yes Snape killed him, and yes he **was **the greatest wizard of all time." Harry answered with a smirk._

"_Was? My dear boy, you do not need to waste your breath. I know very well I am the most superior." Voldemort said with flattery. His Death eaters murmured in agreement._

"_I'm sorry Tom, but you took that wrong. You see, you are not the greatest wizard, but you **are** looking at him." He responded hotly. _

_He felt his scar sear stronger with pain, but not even a flinch to show for it. Voldemort's eyes grew brighter with rage, and he took a step forward._

"_We'll see about that." Was all he muttered._

_And it started; the battle that was to be known for all of eternity. Good vs. Evil. Light vs. Dark._

_Curses were thrown everywhere. Death eaters began to attack Harry along with Voldemort. It was three hundred against one, and yet Harry barely managed to avoid most curses. Throwing himself out of the way, while sending curses everywhere. Many killing curses were sent, although he avoided all of them. _

_Dozens of pops invaded his ears, and he knew that the order had arrived. But he didn't let his defenses down. He continued dodging and throwing spells._

_Half an hour into the battle, and no one had died. It was becoming obsolete, but he knew that they were planning something. The way they all seemed to be moving in the same motion, and the looks they gave each other. He found out seconds later, that his suspicion had been right._

_Suddenly, out of no where, one hundred more death eaters apparated on the spot. The entire dark side turned their attention, not on Harry, but on the order, or mainly McGonagall._

_They were the first to go down. McGonagall fell to the Cruciatus curse, twitching and pulsating, as her haggard voice filled the battle field. Her cries for help pierced through Harry's heart, but he ignored. He had too, and his face turned into one of steel._

_Only when McGonagall was unconscious, and bleeding through her mouth and ears, did they stop, and take down others. Next was Tonks, this time killed with many cutting spells and a Cruciatus for good measures. She was left, blood coated like a sugar candy, on the ground, her wounds gushing dangerously. Harry knew she was alive, but that she would die of blood loss._

_Next came Slughorn, with a simple Avada Kedavra, and then, using something Harry had never seen, although knew was some sort of wall of raw energy, half of the order was wiped out, leaving a great mass of bleeding corpses, scattered around the battlefield. Only at this time, did everything really sink in, and he remembered McGonagall's words. _

"_The only way to fight darkness is to be dark. You won't like it Harry, but this Dark magic I'm about to teach you will be vital." _

_A quick flash of weakness passed through his eyes, before he stood tall and determined, getting up from the ground where he had been panting heavily, and he dropped his wand._

"_FIGHT FIRE WITH FIRE!" He hollered out with rage, and then, closing his eyes, he placed his palms together, and began to draw energy from within himself. _

"_MAXIMUS EVERSIO!" He cried with all his might, and his eyes opened. They were no longer their shade of emerald, but instead they were an intense gold. He could see the shock in the Death eaters' eyes, before a giant wave of gold formed infront of him, and advanced forward, to the Death eaters; and in one, golden swipe, half of the Death eaters were utterly destroyed to nothing, leaving the ground smoking with murder. The remaining began to run._

"_STOP!" Voldemort commanded. All the Death eaters paused, and turned, saluting the Dark Lord._

"_Do you think that little trick really impresses me Potter? We'll see who's superior." He stated, and he too, dropped his wand, and began to pull his hand together, knuckle to knuckle._

_Something in Harry told him to run forward, towards Voldemort, and without a second thought, he began to run, until he was meters away from Voldemort, and a gigantic ball of energy fell upon where he had been moments ago, killing seven more order members._

_Harry didn't let any time pass, and began to start another position, just as Voldemort began to do, and in minutes, blasts of energy were being sent and absorbed._

_This went on for seven hours. _

_Pale, shaking, sweaty and exhausted, Harry never let his concentration fall. He had gone from offence to defense, anticipating each of Voldemort's forms of raw energy. Every single person that had been present at this battle, was either dead, unconcscious, or had managed to apparate in time. He braced himself when he saw Voldemort drop his hands, satisfied to realize that he was in the same state Harry was, shaking, sweaty and exhausted._

_With one hand, Harry wiped away the beads of sweat at his temple, standing with his two feet shoulder width apart, his eyes narrowing as Voldemort's skinny shoulders dropped, and he let his guard down slightly._

"_So, you can fight with Raw Energy. I must say I never anticipated this much energy from you Potter. Congratulations." He slurred._

_Harry's eyebrows rose. A compliment from his **enemy**? But he could read Voldemort. He had learned to after so many confrontations with him. He had something up his sleeve._

"_Yet." Voldemort struck loudly. "You do NOT know how to fight physically. Let us see how you, Harry James Potter, match with the greatest Dark Lord of all time." He spoke menacingly._

"_What irony, you spoke almost the exact same thing in my second years, and if I remember clearly I beat you with your own weapon." Harry exclaimed._

_Voldemort's eyes flashed blood red. He glared at Harry, his face contorting with anger. _

"_LET US SEE!" He screamed. Harry flinched. As much as he could prepare himself, he did not know what was in store._

"_Ses Tasi tursi shi sessash serpser's soshan surstanseth!" Parsletongue slipped through Vodemort's lips, penetrating Harry's ears, freezing his insides. He knew what Voldemort had said._

"_**I call on the great serpent's blood sword."** Harry braced himself with the words were spoken, and suddenly the sky thundered, and turned a bright green, as green as the dark mark, and a shock like a firecracker, sparked through the sky, and a puddle of green began to swirl faster and faster until, out of the sky, like a lightening bolt, came a pale silver sword, aligned with emeralds in the shape of snakes. The handle itself was carved to look as if the snakes were alive, slithering around the holder's hand and up a part of the blade. The eyes of each snake were emerald. Except for the one climbing the sword. They were ruby blood red._

_In a wave of rage, the Dark Lord lunged at Harry, Salazar Slytherin's sword in his hand, glowing bright green, creating a sphere of green around Voldemort._

"_SESHESASE!" He said in Parsletongue, as the blade came into contact with Harry's side._

_A horrific bloodcurdling scream erupted from Harry, as the sword pierced his skin, sending a gigantic wave of pain crashing down on him. Immediately his knees buckled, and he was on the floor, showering blood on the Earth, as his vision swam._

_Voldemort's laugh rang through the mass of dead bodies, as he watched Harry struggle to regain his composure._

"_You are being beaten by a mere sword? Great Harry Potter, defeated because of a simple curse cast through a magical sword? You should be ashamed to ever consider yourself worthy of fighting." Voldemort spat at Harry who was lying on the ground, clutching at his side._

**_No. I need to defeat him. I need to fight fire with fire. But I can't match him, I don't even have a sword. groan If I don't act quick, I'll die shamefully of blood loss._** _Then, suddenly something came looming into his mind. A Picture of the Chamber of Secrets, as he placed the Sorting hat on his head, and The Gryffindor Sword appeared along with Fawkes. **That's It!**_ _His eyes snapped open, and he faced Voldemort._

"_And you should be ashamed of ever letting your enemy have enough time to defeat you. FAWKES!" Harry pushed himself up hastily to his feet, watching Voldemort stare at him in shock._

_The shriek of a bird pierced the silent battle ground, and Fawkes appeared, racing towards the two in a ball of fire. In his claws, was the Gryffindor sword, with its ruby gems glistening in the setting sun._

"_And now, Tom, we fight." Harry said, as the sword was dropped right into his hand. It began to glow bright gold, engulfing him in the light. Green against Gold. It was the ultimate battle of the houses._

_Harry lunged at Voldemort, his mind working ahead of time. Voldemort had said something about simple curses being fired through the sword, because it was magical. Was that possible?_

"_Maximentus Poena!" Harry said, anger vibrating through every fiber in him. He could feel his raw energy stirring within him, and before he managed to register what had happened, his raw energy was released through the sword, in one bright streak of gold._

_A long, agonizing cry issued from Voldemort's mouth, and he stumbled back, pulling his sword in front of him, to block the gold. Harry was blown backwards almost ten feet by his own energy, and weakly got up, using the sword to keep himself upright.** Not now Harry, please. You've got to stay focused.**_ **_You've got to stay strong!_**

_With another cry of rage, Voldemort was back, the pale silver sword lunging at Harry, and Harry's sword, which had turned into a golden metal, lunging at Voldemort._

**

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A/N: R+R!**


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